Frost Patterns
by Lucinda
Summary: AU in s3 BtVS. After Faith's rebellion, the Council fired Wesley. Unfortunately, the Council wasn't content to fire him - they've also blackened his reputation. Now, he needs a new job, and a new place to live. What's a guy to do?
1. parts 1 and 2

Author: Lucinda

rated y-14

main characters: Wesley Wyndham-Price and Emma Frost

disclaimer: Wesley was created by Joss & Co for BtVS and AtS, Emma Frost was created by Stan Lee and Marvel Comics.

distribution: Twisting, mental wanderings, or by request.

notes: pairing #1103 for Twisting's FicForAll. AU post s3 BtVS (he never joined Angel Investigations). An expansion of a 200-word drabble into a longer story.

..fp.

Wesley dropped the letter to the table. He shouldn't have been surprised by it, not after the sordid mess about the death of Allen Finch, Faith's defection to the side of the Mayor, and his utter lack of control over the Slayer. Part of him had been expecting something like this ever since the man had first died, even before they'd learned all of it.

A Slayer was supposed to be a tool, a blade in the hands of the Council, directed to defend humanity against the forces of Darkness, against evil and vampires. A tool… Not independent teenage girls who had their own ideas about life, who wanted to have fun instead of training or patrolling. A Watcher was supposed to teach, guide and control – he'd been taught that since he could walk.

With that in mind, he'd failed utterly. Neither Slayer would listen to him. They didn't give reports of their patrols, or listen when he tried to train them. They gave him no respect, not even as a representative of the Council.

Which he no longer was. Not according to the letter now on the table. His eyes drifted back to it, burned by the hand-written words – the decisions of the council merited nothing less than being written by hand.

….shameful disgrace to the Council and it's traditions of dignity, obedience and respect. You have let one Slayer fall into Darkness, and the other into Folly. These behaviors are beneath the expectations of the Council, beneath the most noble and ancient purpose that we have all devoted ourselves to serve. You have failed.

Failure will not be rewarded - you shall no longer receive a Council Stipend. You are hereby removed from the Rolls of the Councils, the List of Field Watchers. No longer will your name blacken the lists, no longer will your incompetence harm Our Purpose. Entry to the Council buildings and Libraries is denied to you, Contact with the Watchers is Forbidden. You are dead to us.

By My Hand and Seal,

Roger Wyndham-Price, Senior Watcher

What made it hurt the most was that signature. His own father's signature on the letter that proclaimed him a disgrace, that removed him from the rolls of the Watchers. He was fired. More than that… disgraced, fired and disowned. There was nothing left for him… what else could he do with his life but serve the Council?

He'd have to figure out something. Something that would take him out of Sunnydale, and not just because of the Council's demands. He couldn't stay here with the mess of the feuding Slayers, the disappointment of Rupert, and the bitterness of his own failure. There was also the painful fact that he'd been living on the Council Stipend in a Council-paid apartment.

He had to find a job, and he wanted it to be somewhere far away from here. Maybe that was giving in to his pain, maybe it would be running away, but it was what he intended to do. Slowly, he started to list his skills on a sheet of paper. There had to be something he was qualified to do, some job.

End part 1.

Wesley crumpled yet another rejection letter in his hand. He'd forgotten the long reach of the Council. He'd known that they hadn't wanted him any longer, but he hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected them to whisper poison into the ears of potential employers. While he didn't know exactly what they'd said, or into what ears they'd whispered, he knew the signs of a reputation in ruins. His references hadn't checked out. Had they slandered him by suggesting him of acts of immorality? Sloth? Over-indulgence in pleasures and distractions? The blackest of academic sins, plagiarism and perjury?

It didn't matter. Not really. Not when there was nothing that he could do against their insidious whispers. He would have to keep trying, keep looking for a job. If not in museums or universities, then there were still the applications to libraries and high schools. Perhaps he could go somewhere and find work as a fencing instructor.

There was one true piece of mail left for him in the stack of advertisements for sales and car repairs and phone services. He'd sent an application to the Frost Academy in Massachusetts, listing his studies in literature, history and several languages. He'd mentioned French, German, Latin and Greek, but left out the languages that were mainly used for demonic or prophetic texts.

His hand shook as he lifted it, hope and fear warring inside of him. Would it be another rejection? The possibility of a job? He gathered his tattered courage and opened the envelope, pulling out the crisp letter and unfolding it so that he would no longer need to guess, he'd know.

The Headmistress, Emma Frost, wanted him to go there for an interview. She had written that his qualifications were 'impressive', but there had been what she termed 'peculiarities uncovered in the course of checking his references', and she felt a face-to-face talk would be the best way to uncover the truth.

It was the best hope he'd received so far, and being unemployed and soon-to-be homeless in New England wouldn't be that substantially different from the same situation in California. He would go and he would talk with Ms. Frost. Perhaps she was free of the Council's influence. Perhaps she knew them and held a poor opinion of them.

He picked up the phone, calling the airport to arrange a flight. The future was looking much more hopeful, and the sooner he could be there to embrace it, the better. Sunnydale wasn't good for his health anyhow.

End part 2.


	2. parts 3 and 4

Wesley smothered a yawn as the plane descended. He'd packed his things, thankful that he'd been staying in a furnished apartment. Using the meager amounts of magic that he'd learned, he'd vindictively packed all of the weapons and the shelves full of books that he'd brought with him as a Watcher. Perhaps the Council had declared him disgraced and dead, but those book and the full sets of prophecies and the compendiums of demons and the histories of vampires hadn't been bought with Council funds. He'd spent his own money on them, and for the love of God, he was keeping them. He'd used his magic to seal the shelves and shrink them, to secure and reduce the trunks of weapons.

Granted, they were now the size of matchboxes, and the swords could almost double as toothpicks and sewing needles, but they were small enough to put in his carry on luggage. It had taken a two hour ritual to shrink them, and it would take an hour long ritual to restore them to their proper size, but they could safely be transported. He had clothing, two sets in the carry on and the rest in a trunk. He had proper English tea, and Grandmother's tea service, regretfully packed in his luggage as well, and hopefully well padded by his clothing and the towels.

Even with magic, it was rather depressing that everything could fit into a total of three pieces of luggage. None of his former associates would still talk to him, unless it was some of his non-Council contacts. They might not talk to him anymore either, depending on how much contact they had with other Council sources.

He needed this job with the Frost Academy. Even if he wound up trying to hammer Latin into the thick and sleepy skulls of teenagers. He was well and truly out of other options. What else was there, getting some form of transportation and roaming the countryside as some sort of independent demon hunter? The very idea was laughable.

The airport was crowded, but not as bad as it would have been if his flight had arrived earlier. Wesley managed to find the luggage pick up, and dragged his two trunks off of the conveyor. They didn't appear to have picked up any serious damage, though the corner of the smaller trunk had picked up some scuff marks. Sighing, he strapped the smaller trunk to the larger trunk, and set off for the main doors. He had a simple plan: a taxi, a hotel, and then several hours of blissful sleep before he had to figure out his interview. One with little room for errors.

An hour later, as Wesley surveyed the hotel room, he sighed. "Dear God, I need a job. I can't keep running on hope and desperation, and I can't go home. I'm not asking for a luxurious idyll, I'm not asking for lovely young women to feed me grapes and libraries full of first edition texts. Just a decent place to stay, and a job to pay for it. Please?"

Wesley sagged onto the bed, looking at the bland walls with the poorly done paintings. The bland, uncomfortable furniture, and the television with six channels, none of which were interesting. "This can't be my life for the next twenty years…"

Tucking himself into the bed, Wesley sighed. Hopefully his meeting tomorrow with Headmistress Frost would go well. He wanted, needed a job, and he was starting not to care where. Or maybe she could point him towards an opportunity, even if only a job in a bookstore or something. Sleepily, he wondered just what she'd be like.

End part 3.

Morning didn't improve the hotel room, nor did it give Wesley a clearer idea about Ms Frost. Even her first name, Emma, didn't help. One of his grandmother's dearest friends had been named Emma. He'd had a primary school instructor named Mrs. Emma Rutlidge, and a girl named Emma Daily in his grade. He'd had a disastrous date with a woman named Emma in college. There were simply too many ages that she could be.

"Don't panic," he told himself. "If Emma Frost is an older woman, I'll try to look earnest, charming, and in need of a little mothering. For someone closer to my age, charming, and I'll try to come across a bit older than I look. A plan will make things go more smoothly."

It didn't take much longer before Wesley was cleaned up and ready to go see Ms Frost. To his frustration, it took longer to get a taxi to take him there than to get ready to go somewhere. As the driver took off, presumably towards the address on the envelope for the Frost Academy, Wesley grumbled, "Note to self, if I'm going to be staying here, purchase some form of transportation instead of depending on bloody taxis all the time."

The Frost Academy was a collection of pale classical buildings, with lush shade trees, beds of brightly colored flowers, and a pond with several swans gliding over the surface. All in all, a gorgeous and undoubtedly expensive campus that whispered of excellence and exclusivity. It took him several minutes to find the executive building, though he was pleased to see that there was a directory just inside the double doors. The office for Ms. Frost, Headmistress was on the third floor.

Closing his eyes, Wesley took a moment to try to calm himself. He was a qualified, capable man, well educated in literature and languages, and he wasn't going to let an ornate and elaborate campus intimidate him. Now, to find the blasted stairs…

The stairs located, Wesley began the climb. It wasn't difficult to go up the three flights, and he certainly didn't feel winded, but it did give him a bit more time to try to organize his thoughts and calm himself in preparation for his interview.

By the time he reached the office, his hand wasn't shaking at all. Two raps on the door, just below the name plate, and he waited to see if Ms. Frost was in and had time to see him.

"Come in," a woman's voice, not old, not flighty sounding. Firm, calm tone of voice with an educated American accent.

Wesley opened the door, and froze. Emma Frost… not at all like he was expecting. The woman was young, with a face that could have been his own age, or ten years either way, with ash blond hair falling just past her collarbones. A white jacket was unbuttoned over a white corset that made no secret of a glorious figure. Pale eyes measured him, showing less emotion than Quentin Travers at a budget review.

Boyish charm would not help against this woman. He would have to be calm and competent. Blast, he was much better at boyish charm than calm competence.

"Good morning, Ms. Frost," Wesley offered. "I received your letter about my application."

"Mr. Wyndham-Price. Have a seat," one pale hand gestured at a chair, gleaming in steel and white upholstery. "I've been checking your references and your history."

"Quite understandable," Wesley nodded, trying to swallow with a throat that suddenly felt very dry. "Your letter mentioned finding discrepancies? I was unaware of any discrepancies or oddities in my history."

"The first discrepancy is regarding a history class at Oxford," Ms. Frost began. "Despite a listing of students and guest lecturers, I have been told that no such class was ever offered at the college, and that Oxford has no knowledge of several of the guest speakers in question."

Wesley blinked, suspecting that she must mean one of the classes in prophecy interpretation, or perhaps demonology. "What conclusions have you reached about that discrepancy, and the others that you've noticed?"

"Eighteen classes that allegedly never took place, half of them given by people who are supposedly not affiliated with the college. An internship with the British Museum with a man who seems to have some rather curious blanks in his memories, all connected to the time you were there. Several men who claim not to have the faintest clue who you are, despite their tax records," Emma's smile held no warmth.

Wesley only nodded, unsurprised at the lengths to which the Council had gone to ruin his chances and blacken his name. "Let me guess, they told you that I must be a crazed, delusional loon to make such claims about classes that don't exist and people who don't know me."

"Very close, Mr. Wyndham-Price. You seem unsurprised by these discrepancies. Should I assume that you have an explanation?" one pale brow arched at him, and she leaned closer.

For a moment, Wesley's thoughts had absolutely nothing to do with Oxford, Watchers, or employment. They focused entirely on Ms. Frost and her lovely corset, and the idea of Ms. Frost out of her corset. Trying to force such thoughts away, he could feel himself turning red. "I'm not certain that you'd believe me if I tried to explain, Ms. Frost."

"If you could explain exactly what this 'Council of Watchers', sometimes referred to as a 'Watcher's Council' is, I would be most interested," Ms. Frost spoke with arctic tones. "I've run into repeated difficulties that originate with one Quentin Travers."

"The short version, Ms. Frost, is that the Watcher's Council is an old, semi-secret organization based in London. They seldom reveal their true purpose, and the recent centuries have seen politics take a greater and greater precedent over the stated purpose. My family has been involved with the Council for over six centuries, and I was… I was recently cast out. That would be why you are getting very unhelpful reports," Wesley sighed. It would have been very nice to get a job, especially one working with such a beautiful woman. "The Council is currently run by Quentin Travers. He likes to view it as his own personal empire."

"And what exactly does this Council watch?" Ms. Frost spoke again, her words insistent.

"Demons. Vampires," Wesley sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, "And potential Slayers. Also the active Slayer."

"I recognize the terms demons and vampires, but what is a Slayer?" this time her voice held puzzlement.

Wesley took a deep breath and decided to go for it. The worst that would happen was that he'd wind up in some sort of institute, drugged to the gills with things that made life simple and happy. "A Slayer is one girl or young woman in the world chosen by destiny to fight the vampires and demons. She is mystically empowered, giving her enhanced strength, speed and healing, and sometimes prophetic dreams. She fights against the forces of darkness until she dies, and then another is Chosen."

"And Travers wants this Slayer to be his obedient little tool?" Ms. Frost scowled, "Somehow I don't think things would be that easy for him."

"The current Slayer is rather independent, and resisted efforts to be placed under Council guidance," Wesley chose his words carefully. He didn't know if it mattered that he'd been the chosen Council pawn to try to bring the Slayers under control, or that he'd failed due to their stubborn independence combined with his own youthful inexperience.

"What else have you been taught, besides literature, French, Greek and Latin?" Ms. Frost spoke again, her tone suggesting that her mind was spinning several different plans at once.

"German and Sumerian, I can read Arabic and old Egyptian Hieroglyphs, and I know fencing and archery as well as some unarmed combat techniques. Unfortunately, most of my skills have only been tested in controlled circumstances," Wesley admitted.

"Would you be willing to teach fencing and combat as well as languages?" Ms. Frost spoke again, her attention focused on him.

"Yes," Wesley spoke quickly, hope flaring in his stomach.

"You're hired. Officially you will teach literature and Latin, there will also be some students for you to give fencing lessons. Some of the students here are special, and have unique abilities," she smiled.

Wesley blinked, part of his mind focused on those first two glorious words – you're hired. Another part wondered about these special students. Instead, he smiled, and whispered "Thank you, Ms. Frost."

"Call me Emma," her smile still lacked warmth.

End part 4.


	3. part 5

Wesley discovered that the generous terms of his employment included a 'small apartment on campus', which proved to be easily larger than the flat he'd shared with two other Watcher-trainees when he'd attended Oxford, and larger than the flat he'd rented in Sunnydale. There was also a much better view than either of those locations, a stand of trees, with glimpses of the lake between the branches. He assumed that the salary was comparable to the other recently hired instructors, and as it was quite sufficient for his needs, he didn't pry. After all, with the flat provided, all he needed to cover were his utilities and personal expenses. Personal expenses that he vowed would soon include some form of transportation, a car or perhaps a motorcycle.

As he'd arrived in the middle of the quarter, he was not in charge of any of the regular classes, though the Director of Languages did have him substitute on a few occasions for the Greek, French and German lessons. Wesley suspected that the requests were as much about the senior professor needing the afternoon or morning for some other errand as it was about testing him to see if he measured up to their standards and expectations.

While the contract didn't mention it, it hadn't taken long for Wesley to decide that Ms Frost's wardrobe was a benefit of his position. The day he'd interviewed, she'd worn white linen trousers and a matching jacket over a white corset, and he'd been impressed. But after a few weeks, he discovered that she'd actually been in one of her tamer outfits that day... All he could say without being distracted by vivid and inappropriate image was that Ms Frost was certainly self-confident and not in the least body-conscious.

Almost as interesting as Ms Frost's wardrobe, Wesley found himself giving fencing lessons to a select trio of students. Haroun al-Rahman was the easiest to work with, having a decent level of skill and being willing to listen to Wesley when he offered correction or advice. Amara Aquila was quick, nimble, and had a fiery temper, which frequently caused her to let forth streams of Latin that would have shocked and appalled most of his instructors. He tended to let her rant before observing that most of that would be quite anatomically impossible. Manuel de la Rocha... he was skilled, handsome, rich and utterly spoiled. Teaching him was a frustration, in part because he felt there was little he needed to learn and in part because he seemed to delight in playing games with the emotions of others.

More than once, Wesley had found his emotions in a tangle after talking with Manuel. After the fourth time that he noticed his emotions were not as they should be, he started using the techniques that he'd studied to focus and protect his mind, though they did leave him with a bit of a headache. If he was fortunate, practice would reduce the headaches, or at least increase the time that he could shield himself. He was certain that Manuel was some sort of empath, or perhaps a focus for empathic disruption. There were several demonic species that had such capabilities, though none of them could pass for human. That led him to conclude that either Manuel was part demonic, or perhaps an aspected sorcerous adept.

Wesley had been presented with a marking guide and a stack of reports on Chaucer, and requested to help with the grading. Considering the lovely weather, he'd opted to go outside, and was seated at one of the stone tables on the grounds. He flipped the pages of a report on Chaucer, not quite annoyed that he'd been roped into helping grade papers for a class he wasn't officially teaching, though he'd substituted for this professor twice. Soon enough, he would be the professor for classes, and he would be the one assigning reports and presentations.

"He's not a demon," the voice of Emma Frost interrupted Wesley's marking.

"Pardon?" He looked up, delighted to see her, clad as usual in form fitting leather trousers and a low-cut blouse that appeared to be made entirely of white lace. A tiny corner of his mind reflected that he couldn't recall seeing her in anything that wasn't white.

"Manuel. He's not a demon, or part demon," she clarified, settling herself on the bench near Wesley, though not quite close enough to disturb the stack of papers. "He's a mutant."

He blinked, considering her words. Manuel, a mutant? She had mentioned the fencing classes were for 'a few special students', one of which was Manuel, did that mean some of the other students were also mutants? Amara and Haroun? Neither of them had caused his emotions to behave in unusual ways, though if he was remembering correctly, mutants had considerable variety in their abilities.

Attempting to focus, Wesley glanced at Emma's hand, knowing that if he looked at her lovely long legs or that lacy top that didn't quite seem to conceal her, all rational thought would go away for a while. "Is that the reason he keeps playing with people's emotions? A mutant ability? It seems a most irresponsible way to keep himself entertained…"

"Yes, that is how he's entertaining himself. He's quite convinced that nobody will ever do anything to him about it," Emma sighed before commenting, "You seem to have found a way to remain unaffected by his power."

"An imperfect method, designed to permit members of the Watchers Council to fight empathic demons without finding themselves slaughtering each other," Wesley rubbed at his temple, pushing down the complicated knot of emotions that thinking about the Council brought up. Thinking about the Council, his family, his entire past…

"It seems to work well enough," Her voice was smooth, like the thinnest ice over a still pond.

"It has a limited duration. An ideal defense would be simple to maintain, require minimal preparation, and wouldn't leave a headache to rival a concussion afterwards," His smile was a little forced, but Wesley was getting tired of the headaches that Manuel left, not just from defending himself from the boy's abilities but the chaos and turmoil the boy left in his wake, the broken hearts and outraged acquaintances.

"An understandable definition. Of course, such things are often easier said than done." Emma's voice seemed a bit warmer, only cool instead of frozen.

"Such is life," Wesley murmured. "All too often, things are far more difficult and more complicated than they sound."

"Does knowing that already make things easier?" Her hand moved, brushing against his own, her fingers surprisingly warm.

"No. It hasn't made things easier yet," he looked at her, quickly moving his eyes to her face, where he was less likely to be distracted by interesting and passionate images. "Of course, classrooms and lessons in fencing are a good deal easier to handle than fighting vampires in alleys."

"You mentioned that your family has been involved with the Watchers Council for a very long time. Do you have anyone in your family that you can still talk to, or have the all washed their hands of you?" Emma Frost's voice was almost soft.

"For the past few centuries, the real jobs of the men in the Wyndham family have been Watchers, with their daughters becoming the wives of Watchers, sometimes being permitted to help maintain the records and the libraries. The Prices have been the same way, at least the branch that I'm related to. Recent decades have permitted more women to become Watchers themselves, but… The official records may list them as Professors, as scholars and translators, but they are Watchers. Everything else has been a cover, a secondary occupation at best. The letter that was sent, informing me that I had been stricken from the roles…" Wesley paused, hesitant to share so much of his past. They weren't terribly close, and years of ingrained habit urged him to maintain the Council's secrecy.

But he'd devoted himself to the Council only to be sent into failure and cast aside in disgrace. None of what he'd revealed was exactly top secret. "My father was the one who wrote the letter informing me that I was cast out, my name stricken from the lists, and I was dead to the Council."

"How terrible, for you," her hand curled around his. "My father just had me taken away and locked in a mental asylum for three years. He never tried to deny my existence, or claimed that I was dead."

"It doesn't sound like families are a good topic for either of us," Wesley's smile was bitter, but more real than the last one.

"I suppose they aren't," Emma's smile wasn't joyful. "More than a few of the mutants that I've brought here have unpleasantness in their pasts, often from their families dealing poorly with their mutation. I should be glad that you'll understand if they aren't talking with their families, or calling their parents for advice."

Wesley refrained from mentioning that she didn't look glad at all, or that he would think her a bit less human to rejoice in someone's family woes. He also found himself wondering if she was a mutant, and if her father's actions had a connection to an irregularity of genetics, rather than actions. He didn't voice those questions.

"I am pleased that you're fitting into the languages and literature departments so well. Amara has also mentioned that you deal much more calmly with her temper than most of the professors," Emma seemed to want to leave the sticky topic of emotions and families behind.

"Yes," Wesley fidgeted a moment before making this confession. "I've taken notes on a few of her more colorful turns of phrase. My own instructors never used the Latin language quite like that. But instead of telling her that such language or temper is unbecoming of a young lady – which I am certain she's already heard – I have taken to reminding her that the human body does not bend in such ways, or that certain actions are anatomically impossible."

"You might be the only instructor who can make sense out of some of her more colorful phrases," Emma looked as if she was fighting back laughter. "Don't worry, I won't tell her about you taking notes on her insults and curses."

"Thank you," as Wesley smiled back at Emma Frost, he realized that he was starting to feel like he had a place at the Frost Academy. Somewhere that he belonged, not by the coincidence of his family, or by Council fiat, but on his own merits. It was a nice feeling.

End part 5.


	4. part 6

Wesley leaned back in the chair in his office, contemplating the tentative schedule of classes for the next quarter. There had been the usual caveat that some classes would not be offered without sufficient enrollment, and that times might be changed, but this was the current plan. He would be teaching Intermediate Latin, Medieval British Literature, and continuing to instruct certain students in fencing. He would have official classes. An official listing, making it clear that he had a place, he belonged here.

He was resisting the most immature urge to taunt his father about that fact. That despite everything Roger Wyndham could do, he had found worthwhile employment. He contented himself with imagining his father turning unflattering colors and blustering futilely in the face of the incomparable Ms Frost. His father would no doubt attempt to puff himself up and seem important, Ms Frost would not be impressed, and his father would bluster and glare. It would be a memorable sight… and it wouldn't happen. He doubted that there would ever be any reason for the two to be in the same room.

Having permitted himself a few minutes to indulge in satisfied gloating that he had a job, one attained by his own merits and imagining his father flummoxed by the unforgettable and elegant Emma Frost, Wesley refocused his attention on the responsibilities of his job. If he was supposed to instruct two classes, he needed to prepare lesson plans, determine the required reading materials, compare the things he wanted the students to read with the texts that had been expected before, and sort out how much homework would be assigned and of what nature. As he would be the one grading the material, would he rather look at lines and exercises, reports and analysis, or translations? How much class participation and discussion did he want to encourage? There was actual work involved in being a teacher, and if he wanted to remain employed, he needed to carry out the responsibilities of his position.

He'd already established office hours for students who had questions, though not too many had made use of them. Perhaps it was more of a victory that the other members of the faculty had adjusted to his presence, something that might have been aided by his calm acceptance of a small office with only one small window and an uninspiring view. His most frequent student visitors had been Amara, who seemed to enjoy having someone around who would talk to her in Latin, though she seemed quite amused by 'his strange accent', Daphne Langamer with her quest for perfect grades asking dozens of questions about better references and revisions for her reports, and the occasional student from a class that he'd substituted for double checking assignments and due dates.

After spending several hours consulting the other Professors and making lists and schedules as well as scratching out items on those lists, Wesley decided that he'd worked enough on lesson plans for the day. Leaving the building, he discovered that while he was working, it had gotten dark. Night, and here he was without the usual preparations. Bugger.

"Mister Wyndham-Price! Can you help us?" The voice carried the distinctive Moorish accent of Haroun, thicker than normal and full of worry.

"Haroun, what seems to be the matter," Wesley turned towards the voice, blinking at what looked to be wisps of fire around the young man's ankles and the fact that someone else was draped over his shoulder, a hand clutching at his throat. "What happened?"

"Manuel and I were at one of the smaller clubs tonight. He was speaking to a woman near the door when she attacked him, she had sharp teeth and went for his throat," Haroun shuddered, and looked at Wesley. "I am not crazy, and I know what we saw. But I also know how a hospital would react to such a tale."

Wesley considered the young man's words and what he knew of psychology and had to agree. "Presumably she didn't cause too much damage, or you would have sought a medical doctor, not a professor. Follow me to a place with better lighting and some bandages, and tell me anything else that might be of assistance. Anything else about the woman, how to find her, what else she might have done, what prompted her attack on Manuel."

They followed him towards his flat, offering fragmented details about the club, about the music that had been performed. The trip had been Manuel's idea, and Haroun was quite sparse on the reasoning for going along, leading Wesley to assume a bit of manipulation had taken place. There had been something about discounted drinks, and Manuel had mumbled something about buxom blondes in tight dresses. At the doorstep, he uttered words that filled Wesley with dismay – "her eyes turned yellow, with horrible heavy eyebrows and she bit me."

"A vampire. Of all the bloody foolish…" Wesley stopped, taking a deep breath as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. While he made a gesture indicating that they should follow, he did not make the slightest sound that could be counted as a verbal invitation. "Manuel, you foolish boy. While the very idea of using an innate ability to manipulate women into sexual liaisons with you is particularly dishonorable and you should know better, using some sort of mental manipulation on a vampire is beyond dishonorable and well into suicidal stupidity."

"A vampire!" Haroun yelped, jumping into the apartment, as if he expected to be attacked.

"But she…" Manuel faltered, and in a softer voice continued, "There isn't such a thing. Not really… there can't be."

Pulling a first aid kit from under the couch, Wesley tossed some burn cream towards Haroun. "You seemed to have bits of fire near your ankles, you might want this. I'm going to get a damp cloth and then I'll take care of Manuel's neck."

He also took the chance to set up his mental protections. Granted, it would be a foolish idea for Manuel to try to manipulate him when he needed his help, but that need made it all the more likely that the boy might try. He certainly wouldn't be used to people helping because they liked him. Or perhaps he would be so shaken from the attack that whatever conscious control he had would be weakened.

He finished cleaning the blood away before either of the young men managed to say anything more coherent or useful than 'ow' if he pressed a bit hard. Haroun had smeared the burn cream over his ankles and calves, which looked reddened and had a scattering of blisters. He'd found the antibiotic ointment, which he intended to use on Manuel's injury, because the very idea of the sort of infections that could come from a vampire bite gave him a cold dread along his spine.

"You believed us about her biting, about the yellow eyes. You said she was a vampire," Haroun paused, and then sighed. "Everyone else says they don't exist, that they're no more than old stories."

"My grandfather believed they were real," Manuel muttered. "He kept saying that he had almost been killed by one when he was younger, and that the vampire owed him money from a card game. An English vampire named William. The rest of the family just laughed at him."

"William the Bloody? It does sound like him… your grandfather was fortunate not to be killed." Wesley smeared the antibiotic over the wound, and started searching for a suitable gauze pad and the medical tape that he knew was in the box somewhere. Probably at the bottom.

"Vampires and demons are quite real. They have a most unfortunate habit of trying to eat humans, and I'm quite certain that they wouldn't separate most mutants from humans," he taped the gauze into place, and shook his head. He really should have known better than to hope that he could forget about everything. Vampires and demons were everywhere, and they wouldn't care one whit that he was no longer associated with the Council. "Some vampires have their own abilities at mental manipulation, and most of them take very poorly to efforts to manipulate them, if they notice them being used. Vampires only have one response to something irritating them, and that is to kill the irritation."

He ignored the rather profane words that emerged from their mouths, though he did think that Haroun's second comment involving camels sounded particularly repellent. "I presume that neither of you want to be killed by a vampire. Some of them rather enjoy dragging such things out by torturing first and then killing."

Both of them shuddered.

"I didn't think either of you wanted that. Vampires can not enter a private residence without a verbal invitation from someone who lives there, neither of you can invite a vampire into my home, but you could invite one into your dormitory rooms. As you saw tonight, vampires are capable of looking human and in some cases quite attractive. They do not reflect, not in mirrors, dark windows, or ponds. Holy water will burn them, as will crosses and crucifixes." Pausing for a moment, Wesley considered what he knew of Haroun's ancestry. "I confess that I do not know if the holy symbols of other religions will repel or injure vampires. I would far rather not find out in a time of desperate need. I do know that the specific denomination of Christian makes no difference, though Catholics seem to be the most likely to have suitable symbols about their homes. Fire, impalement with silver, wood, or horn, and beheading are fatal to them, as they are to humans and most demons, so I suggest great caution. Accidentally killing a human and claiming that you thought they were a vampire would not keep you out of trouble with the legal authorities, and might lead you to spending far more time with psychiatrists and asylums than you wish, and the asylums would not be of a political nature."

"Does it have to be outright fire, or will enough heat work?" Haroun asked his eyes not focused on anything that Wesley could see.

"Historic documentation is a bit unclear on that. They tend to avoid volcanic craters and vents, but that could be a matter of comfort, or the fact that molten lava is detrimental to almost everything, fatal to vampires. There are a few accounts of vampires being thrown into forges, it apparently killed the vampire and had disturbing effects on the swords being crafted. Deserts are not as hot at night, but there have been vampires in most of the known deserts at various points in history. What do you mean?"

"I'm a mutant. I can create heat, something rather like plasma if I try." Haroun's chin lifted, and his eyes dared Wesley to comment.

"Ahh…" Blinking, he considered the burns on the young man's legs. "Is that what happened to your ankles. Perhaps some sort of fire protection would be in order for you, it's bad form to injure yourself. Mind you, I have very little experience with mutant abilities against vampires or demons, but I would guess that if you can burn human flesh with that ability, then it would burn vampires more severely, perhaps even killing them."

"So she isn't dead?" Manuel whispered.

"When a vampire dies, they crumble to ash. Quite unmistakable, really. If you didn't see her turn to ash, she's still out there. Your best hope is that you left very little lasting impression on her and that she'll forget about you and move on to easier prey." Wesley sighed, fighting the urge to grab a crossbow and go hunting vampires. He wouldn't be terribly effective, and would run a high risk of getting himself killed.

They boys ended up staying in his flat for the night, too shaken and worried to go through the darkness to their dorms.

End part 6.


	5. part 7

The boys left the next morning, grumbling about aches and stiffness from his rather limited hospitality. While he'd tried, the flat hadn't been intended to be the home for more than one man, and there were limits to what he had been able to do. The aftereffects of their fear and the shock of first being attacked by a vampire and then having that event confirmed, with additional warnings, had left them unable to sleep well. While the sun was fully up before they left, they wasted little time in departing.

Wesley wondered just what they might say about their misadventure at the club, and if they would remember just how close they'd come to disaster, especially Manuel. Only time would tell him that. Another part was wondering if they'd been spotted leaving his flat, and if so, what appalling rumors might start. The mere thought was enough to make him want to bury himself in old tomes and hide. But that wouldn't save him.

As he considered the tempting idea of hiding, Wesley concluded that while his books of prophecy and demonology were familiar, they wouldn't shield him from this. For that matter, hiding among the books in his flat could only make him look guilty, and perhaps inspire rumors if there were none floating about. No, if he was going to hide, it should be in a way that didn't look like hiding. Perhaps in his office, or one of the benches near the pond. The view was lovely, and the surroundings generally tranquil and scenic, as well as being rather in view of a large area, but they weren't frequented during the week, being rather far from the classes. Yes, an ideal way to hide, especially if he had a stack of papers and some red pens – he'd simply look like he wanted a bit of fresh air while grading papers.

Thus Wesley found himself on one of the benches, intermittently grading papers and letting his mind wander as the swans drifted past. He couldn't do anything else about possible rumors, though he'd seen more than a few students meandering by, in a position to see him. This would establish that he was out in the open, theoretically approachable, and not appearing to hide anything. Neither of the young men had come to permanent harm last night. And while he wanted to go forth and rid the area of the vampires before any of the students here could be harmed, he would need a plan if he was to do more than wander around with a crossbow – and how would he explain that to the police? – and possibly become another casualty.

His stomach was making a strong case for lunch when a shadow fell over the pages in front of him. The shadow had decidedly feminine curves, causing one eyebrow to lift as he glanced up to see who had walked over to him. Emma Frost arched an eyebrow back at him, one hand resting on her hip, the knee length skirt slit almost to the top of her thigh, and seeming far more solid than the wispy camisole she wore, both of them naturally white. For a moment, his mind wandered off, wondering what, if anything, she had beneath the camisole, and if her motives in approaching him might be half as carnal as the daydreams that she inspired.

Trying to stuff those musings to the back of his mind, Wesley could feel himself flushing as he stammered, "Madame Frost… ahh… good afternoon… erm… Was there something that you wanted?"

"Answers." Her voice was cool, and the half smile suggested that either she wasn't angry at him or he was about to be torn to quivering bloody shreds. Either one was possible with that expression.

"Perhaps you should ask me then? I can hardly give you the right answers unless I know the questions," Wesley reminded himself to breathe, fought to keep from stammering and babbling. He didn't know what was going on, but he hadn't done a single bloody thing to be ashamed about.

"Haroun and Manuel's night out." She moved to sit on the end of the bench, the skirt falling to reveal more of her leg in a tantalizing display of feminine flesh. "What happened, and how did you get caught up in things?"

Wesley sighed, and forced himself to look upwards, at her face instead of that lovely pale leg. "You must understand that I wasn't there for the first part, and had to piece together from what they said and didn't say. As near as I can tell, Manuel decided that they should go to this club, and he convinced or manipulated Haroun into going with him. At the club, Manuel beheld a buxom woman in a close-fitting dress and sought to gain her attentions… Unfortunately, she was a vampire and bit him. Not terribly deep, and I do hope the antibiotic will prevent an infection, but it might leave a scar. They fled the club, and… wound up back on campus, almost bumping into me as I left the offices. They wanted some medical help without being told they were delusional boys who only thought a woman had sprouted fangs because they'd been drinking too much. I had a medical kit at the flat, patched them up, and neither of them wanted to set foot out in the dark after that experience. They left this morning, muttering that my sofa and recliner make terrible beds."

He wasn't certain, but it looked rather like Emma Frost was attempting not to giggle.

"Most people don't choose their living room sets by their sleeping merit," Emma Frost was definitely fighting back giggles.

While a part of Wesley's mind boggled at the sight of _Emma Frost giggling_, another part focused on the larger picture. "Dare I ask what brought this to your attention?"

"Manuel was acting oddly… humble, I suppose you could say. Between that and the bandage peeking out from his shirt collar, I knew that something unusual must have happened. When I pressed for answers, I got a jumbled mess about a blond woman, cinnamon schnapps, big teeth, and you having answers. Considering that he wasn't very helpful, I was hoping that you would be less confused," Emma had finally managed to smother her giggles.

"Most people are rather shaken when they first find out about vampires and demons," Wesley murmured. "They should either calm down and accept it or start repressing very soon."

Emma made a noise remarkably like something that should have emerged from a large beast, given her penchant for white, perhaps a snow leopard. "My students will not repress their troubles like common ignorant fools!"

"It is a normal response, and not one determined by education or wealth," Wesley observed, thinking back to some of the centuries of historical observations held in the old Watcher libraries. "Repression is a very common reaction to stress. Sometimes it wears away, and sometimes they remember after other, similar stresses. There have been assorted psychological papers written about the matter."

"I hold my students to a higher standard than that. The world is neither kind nor forgiving, and not facing the facts can be fatal or worse," Emma frowned before looking at him. "It seems that I shall have to implement a general self defense series among all of the students, and a more detailed program for my special students. I think you should assist with the material."

"The special students… these would be the mutants?" Wesley tried to make it sound like a question, but really… She had told him Manuel was a mutant, Haroun had admitted to being able to create something like plasma, and she was having them learn sword work. If not for the lack of languages and demonology, he would have half expected them to be Watchers in training. Then there was that one girl he'd seen about, the one with the purple hair. He'd been trying to see her reaction to dandelions for weeks, to determine if she was a mutant or a Pardalis demon. Or perhaps demons could have mutants as well, he didn't think Pardalis demons normally came in light purple…

Her eyes looked different, less readable as she spoke a single, soft word. "Yes."

Wesley only nodded, having been expecting something like this since he'd started the sword lessons. Between that and her rather protective reactions to those special students, he strongly suspected that Emma was a mutant herself, not that it made much difference. Someone might as well take an interest in protecting the mutants from the rest of the humans. "Had you been making plans about the vampires before today, Ms Frost? As I told the boys last night, few vampires and demons would differentiate a mutant from a human, unless they were rather different physically, and then they'd likely assume them to be some sort of demon. To vampires and many types of demons, humans are little more than food."

"Various thoughts, but I lack sufficient information to prepare for all the possibilities. I've been sorting out what to do if one of my students were to be attacked, but I'd hoped it would remain theoretical," she sighed, "Rather optimistic of me, wasn't it?"

"The world won't be harmed by a little optimism, as long as it's accompanied by a dash of sense and realistic planning. In the event of a student being attacked, the normal methods of tending wounds would work for physical injuries, depending on the nature of the encounter they might need a carefully chosen therapist. Other than bad memories and therapy, the problem would be if one of them were turned," Wesley shook his head, absently gathering up the papers. "A vampire retains the memories of the person they used to be, and some of the habits, but they lack the moral character, the sense of ethics, the… I suppose the best word is humanity. A vampire lacks a soul, and without that soul they are without conscience or remorse. They kill, torture, and terrorize, and if the victim is someone who knew and trusted the human that they used to be, that makes it so much easier for the vampire."

She looked horrified, one hand raising towards her lips. "Are you certain? Is there no other option, no way to… to restore their sense of appropriate behavior?"

"There is an imperfect gypsy spell that allegedly restores the soul, but even if I could cast it, which I can't, it has some rather large problems. Learned behavior and social mimicry will lose to the bloodthirst. No, the best, kindest thing to do if one of them were turned would be to kill them before they rise. Cremation before interring the ashes, perhaps. It spares the family the hope of thinking their loved one has come back followed by the horrors the demon inflicts." Wesley sighed, and murmured, "This is why most Watchers opt for cremation. Too many stories of what could happen if we're killed by a vampire, or the sort of vile rituals that could be done with bodies. I may not be part of the Council anymore, but what has been learned is not so easily forgotten, and the reasons are distressingly sound."

"I would appreciate if you would help with the specialized defense. Cremation… might be a very good idea," She shook her head, and then murmured, "You're right, it would be a very bad idea for you to go hunting vampires alone. And should anything happen, I'll make certain your remains are cremated."

"Thank you," Wesley murmured. The lovely pond no longer seemed quite as soothing, or the sunshine as comforting. "I'll have to see if I can teach the students a few useful spells. I'm not a mage, but I do know a few useful tricks. Including that temporary mental defense."

"Of course." She stood up, her hands smoothing the skirt over her legs, and she glanced at him. "Wesley? You may call me Emma, when we aren't in a formal setting."

As he watched Emma walk away, he reflected that the day did have a bit of good to it after all. Emma. He could feel himself smiling.

End part 7.


End file.
